


a thousand miles from where we started

by piecesofgold



Series: sweet home alaska [2]
Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Ficlet Collection, Multi, Out of Order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofgold/pseuds/piecesofgold
Summary: dust on every page-verse ficlets. because i'm not ready to let them go yet.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: sweet home alaska [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681177
Comments: 48
Kudos: 54
Collections: sweet home alaska





	1. pre-verse

“Anya!” Polly grasps her shoulders, leans in so close Anya can smell the vodka on her breath. “Your boy’s looking for you.”

 _Her boy_. It takes a few seconds for Anya’s alcohol-laden brain to realise who she’s talking about. “Dmitry? Why?” It’s too loud here, over the small bonfires crackle and whooping of the Sophomores she doesn’t know from the high school she’s never been to.

Polly shrugs, eyes already sliding elsewhere, seeking out the rest of the Cheer squad. “Think he wants to leave.”

Anya glances up at Marfa’s house, sees the spare bedroom light has been turned off. “I’ll find him. Thanks, Pol.”

Polly clumsily pats her cheek, letting her go.

Marfa throwing a Fourth of July party had sounded like a good idea _in theory_ , and Anya had jumped at the chance given her parents ignored the day altogether.

All the Sophomores and Juniors had to be squeezed into one small house, however, was the exact opposite of her idea of fun.

Anya hates that she’s homeschooled most of the time. This is one of the few moments she’s almost grateful for it.

Honestly, they would have been best going to The Nevsky.

It’s a fight through much taller bodies to the stairs, and she flips off whoever wolf-whistles when she finally gets up then. Upstairs is fortunately clear, Marfa’s no-go rule held up.

Still, Anya gently pushes the spare room door anyway, cringing at its creek. It’s dark, the only light coming from the bonfire outside.

He’s asleep on top of the covers, jacket and shoes discarded, arm over his eyes. Anya watches him for a moment before removing her own shoes and tiptoeing over.

“Mitya,” she whispers, kneeling beside him. “Hey.”

Dmitry doesn’t stir, chest rising and falling evenly.

“ _Dmitry_.”

His whole body jerks, eyes squinting open. “Huh? Wassa?”

Anya rolls her own, pokes him in the ribs to make him squirm. “Polly said you were looking for me.”

“Oh.” Dmitry yawns, fumbles to pat her hand.

“I’m here.”

”Yeah.” He’s halfway asleep again, eyelids drooping.

Anya gives up, opting to lay beside him. “Are you drunk?”

“Not tonight.” He cracks one eye open to look at her properly. “Tired.”

The blanket of darkness and warmth over them is making Anya sleepy, too.

“We can leave if you like,” she says quietly, fighting back a yawn herself. “Party blows, anyway.”

“Shhhh.” Dmitry rolls over, flinging an arm across her waist, nose brushing hers. “Sleep now.”

“This isn’t your house,” she reminds him, but there’s no bite to it. He’s been tired a lot, the last few weeks - Anya had chalked it down to over-exerting himself with the boats, but she suspects it has more to do with all the college brochures she’d seen hastily stashed in his desk earlier.

He doesn’t know if he wants to go, Lily had said.

Anya’s not sure if she’s ready to let him go.

“Turn around,” she whispers. “I’m big spoon.”

Dmitry groans out a laugh. “You’re too short.”

“You’re too warm,” she objects, sitting up to take her jacket off. She feels his hand on her thigh, thumb rubbing absentminded circles into her skin.

He doesn’t roll over, instead buries his face in her hair, arms around her waist.

“Goodnight, Anyok,” he mumbles, and she must turn her head to say it back the same time he goes to kiss her cheek, because suddenly his mouth is on hers and all thoughts of sleep are thrown from her mind.

Reeling back, Dmitry’s face is stricken, eyes huge. “Oh.”

His hands haven’t moved from around her.

Anya would laugh were it not for the blood pounding in her ears. “Oh,” she repeats, one hand on his chest, his heartbeat too fast against her palm.

There’s a second, two, of waiting, as if to see who breaks first, who’s going to laugh it off and say forget it.

She doesn’t know which of them does first, just that they’re kissing again and it’s a mess, her knees over his waist and his hands everywhere until they settle on her hips.

She’s never thought about kissing Dmitry before, always pulled a face when other girls in town have told her what he’s like with them. He’s one of her best friends, she didn’t need to know these things.

Now she doesn’t know why she never found them out herself.

A firework outside makes them both jump apart, breathing hard and loud in the quiet room. Anya touches her stinging lips while Dmitry looks like a deer in the headlights, staring at her as if in a whole new light.

She gets it.

“I should -“ He’s in a haste to push her off his lap and himself off the bed.

“Dmitry -“ Anya tries, bemusedly watching him hop around trying to get his shoe on.

“Just - if you want to forget the last thirty minutes, that’s fine -“

“Dima, will you _shut up_.” Anya grabs the lapels of his jacket, hauls him down to her level.

The noise he makes against her mouth makes her smile, and she moves a hand to muss up his hair.

When she pulls back, hands still on his jacket, he looks dazed.

Anya tilts her head. “Okay?” is all she says.

Dmitry searches her face, and Anya feels the moment the tension leaves him. He presses his forehead against hers, exhaling, before suddenly straightening and pulling her up with him. “Should get you home, your dad’s gonna kill me.” He tosses Anya her shoes, pauses before kissing her again, just because he can.

Anya grins slyly, tongue pointed between her teeth. “I can think of a few new reasons why he’d want to.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dmitry is an insomniac. Not in the same nightmares-and-medication way as her - his brain just goes too fast when he’s stressed or working on something. College resumes when they were teenagers. Spreadsheets, blueprints, a boat, more recently engineering prototypes.

Anya doesn’t understand half of it, but she always asks, has always liked listening to him ramble and explain things.

He stays with her while she’s down and out with the flu, two months after she’s moved to New York. “I’m gonna get you sick too,” she warns him over the intercom.

“I got my flu shot, and I bought you soup,” he checkmates. “Let me up.”

Which is how Anya winds up waking up at three in the morning, under a pile of blankets with Dmitry beside her. He’s facing away, ghostly light of his laptop falling over the sheets.

“What are you doing?” She mumbles into the pillowcase. He reaches a hand back over to pat her where it lands on her hip.

“Old files on Russian Revolutionaries,” he says quietly. “Found a digital copy.”

She moves closer, presses her heated forehead between his shoulder blades. “What do they say?”

“They’re pretty boring.” He pauses. “Found some of your family names.”

Anya hums, unsurprised. “Any of yours?”

She feels him tense a little. “On my mother’s side, I think.”

“Tell me.”

Dmitry clears his throat, digs his fingers in where they’re still resting on her hip. “Milana Tikhonovna, my great something grandmother - she was a war nurse, and her brother, Fyodor, was a palace guard for the Imperial family…”

Anya starts to drift off listening to him talk softly about his family, telling her the names of people he is an assortment of, their stories and complexities.

One name makes her blink. “Makarovna,” she interrupts him. “That was your mother’s maiden name.”

Dmitry’s fingers twitch in surprise at her side. “Yeah.” He shuts his laptop, rolls on his back to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I wish you could have met her.”

Anya pulls a face into his vest. “She wouldn’t have liked me.”

He chuckles, closing his eyes. “Probably not.”


	3. Chapter 3

“On a scale of one to ten,” Dmitry asks, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. “how bad of an idea would it be if we got married again?”

“Off the charts,” Anya answers smoothly, eyes meeting his in the mirror. “Could you -“ she motions to him.

Dmitry obediently takes a square of tissue and moves to stand in front of Anya, tilts her chin to wipe excess lipstick from the edges of her mouth. “So?"

Anya raises any eyebrow. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m deadly serious.” His hand rests on her cheek.

“We’ve barely been divorced _two years_.” She’s not sure why she’s trying to talk him out of it when she wants to say yes. “We don’t even live together.”

“We might as well.” Dmitry shrugs, like this is easy, like casually proposing to her in his bathroom right before her aunts birthday gala is completely normal. “And a lot has changed in two years.”

“The first disaster wasn’t enough for you?”

“You’re enough for me.”

It’s so unexpectedly sincere and so _Dmitry_ that Anya has to look away.

Clearing her throat, she reaches up to adjust his bowtie. “Well, if you’re sure -“ she holds a finger up when he opens his mouth to interupt. “Then ask me again properly.”

He grins. “When?”

“Soon.” Anya pats his cheek, before leaving to find her shoes. “And with a ring, please!”

* * *

“I know she doesn’t like me, but holding me hostage next to the mini-sandwiches feels like overkill."

Anya groans. “Please tell me she didn’t shovel-talk you."

“And then some.” Dmitry swings their hands between them, laughing at her scowl of embarrassment.

They had planned to take a cab back from Xenia’s birthday gala, but the night is too nice to pass up a walk. Anya exchanged her heels for the emergency pumps in her purse, Dmitry’s blazer draped over her bare shoulders.

“It’s not that they don’t _like_ you -“ she’s trying to explain.

“Anya, I really don’t care.” They turn a corner, and he points at the food truck ahead. “Burrito?”

Nodding eagerly, Anya squeezes his hand twice before dropping it to let him go.

Once he’s ordered, he pats himself down for cash. “Hey, my wallet’s in the pocket, could you -” Turning back, the words die in his mouth.

Anya had obviously taken the initiative to look for it herself, rifling through the pockets until her fingers had found something that certainly isn’t his wallet.

The velvet box is held carefully between her fingertips, her face stricken as if looking at a small grenade. When she finally looks up at Dmitry, he has to remember how to breathe.

“You said you wanted a ring,” he says softly.

The moment is broken by the vendor snapping at him, and Dmitry hastily takes his wallet to stuff a wad of notes in the guys hand.

Anya’s still staring at him. “Before, when you asked if I wanted to get married again...”

Dmitry nods, throat dry. “Call it testing the waters. I wanted to - do it properly.”

Something flickers across her face then, soft and fond. She holds the box out to him. “Okay.”

“What?”

“Do it properly.”

Dmitry blinks, hopes it translates as _Really? Now? Here?_ But there’s a challenge in Anya’s bright eyes, and far be it for him to back away from any of them.

With the vendor behind him calling their order and bored looking tourists mingled around them, Dmitry takes the box and lowers himself onto one knee.

“Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov,” he says loudly. “I’ve been in love with you most of my life, and since we messed it up so badly the first time, how’s about a do-over?” There’s a lump in his throat making his eyes wet. “Anya,” he tries again, quieter. “Will you marry me?”

Around them, people are gasping and taking their phones out, but Dmitry only hears Anya’s hiccuped sob of “ _Yes_ ,” and he can’t get back onto his feet fast enough to wrap his arms around her.

Her hands are shaking when he finally remembers to slip the ring on, between kisses and bites of food. Mascara is streaked down her face, but she’s giggling. “Were you planning to ask at the gala?”

“At first, but Xenia cornerned me and I figured I’d wait till we got back.”

Anya kisses him again, fingers looped between the buttons of his shirt. “I love you,” she tells him, more confident in it than he’s ever heard her. Standing on her tiptoes, lips ghosting over his ear. “Take me home.”

Dmitry doesn’t need telling twice.


	4. pre-verse

Anya doesn’t bother squinting at the caller ID before she hits accept.

“Yes?” She mutters, face still mashed into the pillow.

“Hi, is this Anastasia Sudayev?”

The name she hasn’t used in three years jolts her into sitting up. “How - I’m sorry, who is this?”

“I’m calling from Clayton Beachy Hospital, ma’am, can you confirm who you are?”

Her stomach lurches. The hospital in Fritz Creek where her brother seemed to have spent most of his short life and her mother held residency during sleepless weeks. Where she had been for two weeks when her world collapsed around her.

Throwing a cautionary glance at James’ sleeping form, Anya scrambles out of bed. “This is Anastasia speaking,” she confirms, sliding the bathroom lock in place. “What is it?”

“Your husband has been in an accident.”

 _Dmitry_. Anya sinks onto the edge of the bath before her knees give out. “He’s not -“ she goes to correct before her brain catches up with her. She shuts her eyes. “What happened? Is he alright?” A million different scenarios whirl through her mind, each worse than the next.

“His boat overturned on the river, he has a concussion and a few bruised ribs, but he’s otherwise fine,” the woman explains, and Anya deflates in relief. “Should I tell him to expect you?”

Anya barely chokes on a laugh. “No, that’s - unnecessary.” She cringes. “We’re - we’re separated, I’m not even in the country. Not sure why I’m still listed as his emergency contact.”

“Oh.”

“I can give you the number of his foster parents if -“

“No, I have them listed here as his seconds.”

There’s an awkward pause while Anya deliberates, chewing her thumbnail. “Could you -“ she starts. “Please don’t tell him you called me.”

“Of course.” The tone is clipped now. “Goodbye, Mrs Sudayev.”

Anya sits there for a long time, unwilling to crawl back into bed with her mind so far away.

What would she have done, if it had been worse? If he had asked for her?

She’s spaced out all morning, burns her hand on the coffee pot and doesn’t even bother trying to hold a conversation with James over breakfast.

“Hey.” He snaps her fingers in front of her face. “Where’s your head at?”

“Nowhere.” Anya bats his hand away, loops her finger around his wrist. “Right here.”

All the lies are going to amount to something, eventually. Anya wonders how much of a catastrophe her life will look like afterwards.


	5. Chapter 5

Anya doesn’t say a word the whole drive home from the airport. If she hadn’t slept on his shoulder through the entire flight, Dmitry would just assume she’s tired.

It’d been jarring, being back in Alaska after so long, but they were long overdue a visit and Lily had been threatening to show up at their apartment unannounced - which is _not_ a risk they were willing to take. So it was a week spent with overbearing family and well-meaning friends with too many small children running circles around them, and odd homesickness growing in Dmitry’s chest the longer they stayed.

“Lena’s getting big,” Anya’s suddenly saying, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah, she’s a cheeky little thing.” Dmitry glances at his wife’s hands twisting in her lap. “Takes after Polly.”

Anya doesn’t even crack a smile.

Something is very, very wrong, but it’s probably not a conversation they should have while driving after three flights and two layovers. Dmitry grips the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the road.

* * *

Suitcases left beside the coffee table, they scrub off the tackiness of a long day. Dmitry washes suds out of Anya’s hair under the shower stream, and she still won’t look him in the eye.

It’s not a fight, he’s fairly certain, but Anya leans back against the headboard, hair damp and fiddling with the hem of one of his old band tees, and he knows neither of them will sleep like this.

Dmitry lies across his own side, taps her hip. “You okay?”

Anya glances at him. “Yes?”

“That’s not a question you answer with another question.” He splays his hand over her hipbone. “Have I done something? Did I say something stupid with the others, or -“

Anya huffs, gently taps her knee against his chin. “No, Mitya, come on -“

“Anya.” Dmitry hooks a hand under her knee and flattens her leg against the mattress. “When we don’t communicate, we usually end up getting divorced.”

Anya’s mouth curves into a half smile then, twirling the ring around her finger. “Lily was dropping hints all week about my ‘biological clock’.” Hands raised in air-quotes, her voice takes a sarcastic tone.

Dmitry freezes. “She didn’t.”

“She did. As good as cornered me at breakfast.”

He presses his face into Anya’s thigh and groans. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Anyok. I’ll talk to her, that’s out of line.”

“She’s not wrong, though.” Anya’s looking at him pointedly when he raises his head. “We’ve - never talked about it, but...I know you want kids.” Her smile is sad.

Dmitry straightens himself. “Do you?”

She looks away. “That’s the complicated answer.”

Not wanting to discourage her, he takes her hand. “Go on.”

Anya clears her throat. “Do you remember Alexei’s condition?”

Dmitry blinks, taken aback. “He had haemophilia,” he remembers.

“Yes, and do you know why he had it?”

Dmitry shakes his head, frowning. “Anya, I don’t understand. You don’t have haemophilia.” 

She’s staring straight ahead, not looking at him. “No, I don’t, because women don’t usually have it. We just carry the non-functional gene and pass it down.” She sounds more tired than he's heard her in a long time, voice completely flat.

It dawns on Dmitry suddenly. “You’re a carrier,” he says quietly, fingers squeezing hers.

Anya’s lip wobbles. “Got the gene test when I was sixteen, just to check.”

“Why didn’t you ever say?”

Anya snorts welty. “Dima, I never even told my parents. Alexei, he -“ her exhale sounds painful. “You saw what it did to my mother when he was bad, how stressed and scared she was, how much he was coddled.” Her grip on his hand tightens. “I want kids. I want them with you, so much. but the thought of giving _this_ to them, what it would do to us -“ She cuts off with a sob.

“Hey, no.” Dmitry sits up quickly, cups her face in his hands. “You’re not going to lose me, not over something you can’t even control.”

“But you want kids,” Anya protests. “Ever since you _were_ a kid, and if I’m too scared -“

“Listen to me.” Dmitry stops her. “I love you. And if I’m honest -“ he wipes a fresh fall of tears off her cheek. “I’ve been looking for a way to ask what you think of adoption.”

Anya’s eyes clear. “You want to adopt?”

He chuckles, hollow. “Life I had, that so surprising?”

“No.” She smiles, tugging him closer. “You have a saviour complex, Dmitry Sudayev.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“I know.” Anya softens, brushes a hand over through his hair. “And I would love to adopt kids with you.”

Dmitry’s eyebrows shoot up, face breaking into a smile. “Kids? Plural?”

“One of five, remember,” she points out. “Though I might be willing to barter for six or -“ whatever else she was going to say gets lost in Dmitry tackling her, cackling, to the mattress.


	6. Chapter 6

She asks a lot of questions, between the ages of four and five. Dmitry says they should start keeping a tally, but Anya thinks they’d run out of room in an hour.

Her fascination tonight, sitting on her father's knee at the porch table, is names.

“Daddy, what’s your name?”

“Dmitry,” he tells her. “Can you say it?”

“‘Mitry,” she tries, tilting her little head back to meet his eyes.

Dmitry chuckles. “Close enough.”

“Moma?”

“Anastasia.” Anya smiles over. “But everyone calls me Anya.”

She makes a valiant effort with that one, but gives up after Ana. “What’s my name?”

“You know your name, baby.”

Her brown eyes brighten. “Cassie!”

Dmitry tickles her. “And what’s your big name, do you remember?”

Cassie juts her chin out exactly the same way her mother does, forms her own name slowly. “Cass-ee-o-“ she struggles.

“Cassiopeia,” Anya helps her. “Like the constellation.”

Cassie frowns. “Constella…”

“Star pattern.” Dmitry points up at the night sky. “I’ll show her to you tomorrow night.”

“What’s my name, Cassie?” The form folded into Anya’s lap asks sleepily. He’s getting far too big for such a position, but Anya can’t say she minds.

“Andy,” Cassie declares eagerly, then points at the sleeping cat underneath the table. “And Marmie!”

Marmalade begrudgingly raises her head, stretches languidly and goes back to sleep.

Cassie reverts back to her very favourite question then. “Why’s that my name?”

Anya’s mouth twitches. “Because Daddy fancied himself an astrologist when we were younger,” she says.

“I was a _great_ ametur atsrologist,” Dmitry objects, rolling his eyes at Anya. “We almost called you Aurora, though. Too many As.”

“After the Disney princess?” Andrew frowns. Anya brushes his blond fringe from his eyes, listening to Cassie sing _Once Upon a Dream_ off key.

“After the Aurora Borealis,” she corrects. “The pretty lights where Gramma lives.”

“Don’t let Lily hear you call her that,” Dmitry puts in, reminiscent of what Lily had said when they told her they were adopting Andrew.

“Don’t have him call me Grandma, it makes me feel ancient,” she’d complained - a rule that was promptly thrown out the second she met Andrew, small and bright eyed.

Cassie hasn’t finished her interrogation. “Why’s Andy called Andy?”

Anya and Dmitry exchange a panicked glance.

“And _rew,”_ the boy in question quips stubbornly, straightening up. “They don’t know, they didn’t give it to me.”

He says it matter-of-factly, but Anya hugs him hard. “Perhaps not, but we love your name, honey, almost as much as we love you.” She makes a show of kissing his cheek, laughing as he tries to squirm away.

“ _Mom_ , get off,” Andrew protests, wiping his face. “Dad!”

Dmitry grins, glancing up from braiding Cassie’s hair. “You’re on your own, buddy.”

Andrew settles back, grumbling. Marmalade hops up on the table, bumping her head against Dmitry’s shoulder. He’s murmuring something, his and Cassie’s face tilted up to the sky.

Dmitry catches Anya’s eye, smile so wide it could light up New York.


	7. pre-verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this is utter filth, just fyi.

Contrary to what everyone else seems to think, Anya had no ulterior motive with the costume.

Marfa squints suspiciously. “Why do you want one of my old cheer uniforms, exactly?”

“Halloween,” Anya explains pointedly. “Dead cheerleader, obviously.”

“Ah.” Marfa tilts her head. “What’s Mitya, dead jock?”

Anya pulls a face. “Vampire, I think. He vetoed couples-costumes this year.”

Marfa laughs, rifling through her bottom drawer. “Can’t imagine why.” She hands off the faded blue and white uniform emblazoned with Aurora Borealis High School’s abbreviation in block black letters across the chest.

“Fred and Daphne was _not_ my idea,” Anya protests. “I wanted to be Velma.”

“So you’ve said, multiple times.” Marfa’s already shooing her out. “Go, zombie-fy yourself and _please_ don’t let Mitya wear a cape.”

Maria helps her muss it up, trailing fake blood across Anya’s neck and whitening her face.

“Ugh.” Maria shivers. “Couldn’t you have picked something less morbid?”

“It’s Day of the Dead!”

“That’s November second, actually. And we’re not in Mexico.”

“Masha, stop trying to kill my one night of being a cheerleader, please.” Anya pouts, and Maria laughs, tying off her younger sister's braid.

“There. Zombie cheerleader.” She pats Anya’s head. “Go, your boy’s downstairs.”

Dmitry - decked in one of Vlad’s old white shirts and, unfortunately, a cape - takes one look at Anya’s costume and drops his jaw. Under his own white makeup, Anya can see his face flushing.

It’s the heat in his eyes as his gaze travels over her body that makes her feel far too hot in a cool house, hand slipping on the bannister.

* * *

Anya can barely pay attention to anything or anyone at Dunya’s party, not when Dmitry’s hands keep sliding up her skirt.

Of the two of them, he’s rarely the one who takes control, usually happy to relent to Anya’s escapades. Even when they were young he had trouble vocalising being selfish with what he wants - Anya’s long since gotten into a habit of asking what he wants from her, from them.

She’s been trying to coax this side of him out for _months_ , and all it took is a damn cheer costume.

She shotguns a bottle of peach schnapps with Marfa, who laughs and thumbs over the stain on Anya’s chest - her old crop top - tongue pointed between her teeth. “It suits you.”

Anya preens, grinning.

“Stop trying to steal my girlfriend, Spektor.” Dmitry is warm behind her, and Anya tries not to squirm at his fingers tucking into the waistband of her skirt.

“You wouldn’t even _have_ a girlfriend without me, Mitya, you’re no fun.” Marfa pulls a face. “Tell me you’re not keeping those plastic things in your teeth all night.”

“He’s not,” Anya answers alongside Dmitry’s offended noise. She tilts her head back against his chest to look at him and his stupid plastic fangs. “You’re not.”

“Now who’s no fun?” Dmitry protests.

Anya raises her eyebrows, turning around in his hold. “Put it this way,” she says, making her voice as sweet as possible. “you’re not going down on me with plastic vampire fangs.”

Dmitry chokes on air, immediately slipping the fangs out of his mouth.

“Annnd that’s my cue.” Marfa shakes her head, taking the bottle of peach schnapps back. “Excuse me, I need to go stop Dunya making bad decisions.”

“You can say hooking with Polly, we all know,” Anya points out, cackling at Marfa flipping her off as she leaves.

Dmitry’s eyes have darkened when she turns back, his hands trailing over the skin between the crop top and skirt, making her squirm. He ducks his head to kiss her, and Anya’s breath hitches.

“What’s up with you tonight?” She giggles, tugging at the flimsy cape he’d obviously bought from Meyers.

Dmitry seems to catch himself, pulling back and blinking rapidly. “Nothing. Sorry, just -“ He licks his lips, eyes hot over her body. If Anya wasn’t half aroused already, the way he's looking at her now and absentmindedly pushing her skirt up would definitely do it for her.

Anya grabs his hands to pull around her waist, forcing him to meet her eyes. “It’s okay,” she says lowly, pressing against him. “You can tell me.” She brushes their lips together. “Tell me what you want.”

Dmitry is holding her firm, moving his mouth to her collarbone.

“You,” he mutters. “You. Now.” He nips at her skin, Anya barely able to hold back a whimper.

“How?” She keeps prompting him, wants to hear him say it.

Dmitry glances over at where their friends are drinking, swallowing. Anya sees him consider for a second, watches him decide to cross his own line. He kisses her throat upwards until he reaches her ear.

“Want to go down on you,” he breathes harshly. “and fuck you, in that outfit. Right now.”

Anya has to ball her fists in his shirt to stay standing, head swimming and legs trembling, so turned on there’s no room for anything else. Nodding eagerly, she drags his face back up to hers. “Then what are you waiting for?”

* * *

Anya hadn’t exactly factored Dmitry’s truck into their current equation.

It’s still fairly light, dusk settling over the woods they’re driving around the outskirts of. She’s impatient, hands clenched in her skirt to stop her from touching herself.

Dmitry seems to have no such qualms, one hand on the steering wheel and the other reaching over to brush between her thighs.

“Dmitry,” Anya means to sound annoyed, but it comes out desperate.

It’s only when he glances over smirking does she realise he’s doing it on purpose. Anya’s about ready to murder him.

“If you don’t -” she starts again, only to be cut off by him abruptly pulling over, a few meters from the riverbank.

Dmitry shuts the engine off and turns to her. “Push your seat back,” he says quietly. It’s more of an order than a request, sending a jolt through Anya that makes her thighs clench.

Mouth dry, she adjusts her seat back with shaky fingers and reclines it, just enough so that she can still see him clamber over and fold himself between her knees. It can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t look unhappy down there, broad shoulders making her legs open wider.

“What if someone comes,” Anya whispers, lightheaded, then bites back a laugh because _someone_ is definitely going to come.

Dmitry hooks his fingers through the elastic of her underwear and pulls them down her legs, kissing her thigh. “Then you’ll just have to be quiet, princess.” The nickname makes her buck forward, whimpering before he’s even touched her properly. Anya raises her hips to pull the skirt down too, but Dmitry grabs her wrist. “No, leave it on.”

If she knows all his verbal buttons and pressure points, he knows all her physical ones, obvious in the way he runs his mouth agonizingly slow over her. One of his hands flattens over her stomach to stop her squirming, the other seared to her thigh.

Anya digs her heels into his back. “Dima, please,” she begs, voice breaking. Dmitry huffs a laugh against her, finally decides to stop his torture and speeds up the rythm. He sucks over her clit, tongue flicking over her hard and fast, and it’s so much, so fast.

Hot all over and feeling the familiar pull in her abdomen, Anya grapples for something to hold onto. She grabs his fingers and the edge of the window, unable to hold back moaning. Anyone outside the car or near the riverbank can hear, she thinks blearily, and she groans, pressing her hips further forward.

“Oh, _fuck_ -” Anya gasps, the first touch of Dmitry’s fingers alongside his tongue surprising her orgasm from her. Dmitry doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, crooking his fingers and playing with her idly.

“God, Anyok,” he’s panting, sucking a bruise on her inner thigh while his hand works between them. “You’re so good.”

Anya can’t speak, claws at his shoulders while her thighs try to tighten around his head, like her body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him in, hypersensitivity shocking through her.

Dmitry hooks his arms under her knees and surges forward, pressing her leg back to open her up further, eating her out like he can’t get enough. Anya arches off the seat, crying out a stream of broken English and Russian as she unravels again, weakly, against his mouth. He keeps licking into her insistently, only slowing down as he lowers her legs from his shoulders.

“Good?” He has the nerve to ask, forehead resting against her leg, hands stroking soothingly across her stomach.

Anya would kick him if she could move at all. “Let me regain feeling in my limbs and I’ll get back to you,” she pants, and he laughs.

Their heavy breathing is the only noise she can hear in the car until Dmitry starts fidgeting, tugging at her skirt, and she suddenly realises he hasn’t come at all after making her twice.

“Dima,” she says softly.

He looks up at her, vaguely bashful. “S’it okay - can I -“

“Fuck, yes, get up here.”

Anya can do very little but cling to his dumb cape and curse under her breath when Dmitry rocks into her, an awkward position to be in a carseat, but his hands are pushing up her crop top to get his mouth over her breasts, and she can’t find it in her to care. She sends out a silent thanks to the universe that she’d decided to forgo a bra when she was getting ready.

“So,” she breathes, biting back a moan when he hits that spot just right inside her. “Is it a cheerleader thing, or a me thing?”

Dmitry scoffs, nipping her throat. “I haven’t fucked the cheer squad, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Anya smirks, raises his face back to hers, pressing her thumb against his mouth until the skin turns white. “Not even Marfa?”

Dmitry rolls his eyes, lunging forward to kiss her. Anya hitches her leg over his hip, whimpers over the slap of their hips, falls apart against him for a third time. He comes with a groan, lips against her cheek.

Anya lets herself go limp, tracing patterns in the small of Dmitry’s back. “ _Rrakhni menya_ ,” she murmurs.

Dmitry laughs breathlessly. “Just did, unless you’re ready to go again.” He doesn’t move to roll off, and she doesn’t push, his weight heavy and comforting on top of her.

“Shut up.” Anya turns her head to brush their noses together, and Dmitry moves to kiss her, slow and languid, palms spanning patiently over her thighs.

He pulls out, kisses the whimper from her mouth before he settles back, face in the crook of her neck. “You giving this back to Marfa?” He asks, tugging at the cheerleader uniform.

Anya giggles, relishing the ache between her legs. “Don’t think she’ll want it.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Could you -” Anya tries to stifle the giggles that had followed them all the way up the building. “Let me _open the door_ , at least.”

Dmitry continues mouthing at her neck, impatient hands sliding under her blouse that Anya wants nothing more than to tear off.

“Hurry _up_ , for God's sake,” Dmitry groans, fingers running over her ribs.

Mercifully, the lock finally gives way. They stumble into Dmitry’s hallway - though Anya supposes it’s _their_ hallway now, and it makes her head spin.

The door is scarcely closed before she’s being pressed up against the wall, Dmitry seemingly unable to stop kissing her long enough to draw breath. Not that she’s complaining, hastily trying to shove his blazer off his shoulders.

Neither of them look as if they’ve just come from a wedding, in dark jeans and a pretty red blouse, a dress shirt and blazer. But their relationship has never exactly been conventional - they’re hardly about to start now.

“Which did you prefer,” Anya starts, running her hands through his hair while he trails hot kisses down her throat. “First or second wedding?”

Dmitry laughs, kissing her soundly. “The fact that’s even a question for us.” He suddenly hoists her up, smirking at her squeak of surprise. “Would have liked seeing you in white again.”

“Okay, _you_ try finding a wedding dress with two weeks notice,” she argues, jabbing him in the chest. But she lets him kiss her again, thumbs tucked into the waistband of her jeans that Anya is really beginning to regret wearing.

“Second,” he murmurs. “Definitely second.” Lifting her hand, he kisses the new silver band there, eyes impossibly soft. “How’s it feel being Mrs Anya Sudayev again?”

A wave of emotion ripples through her, hearing it out loud. She’s so giddy it’s consuming.

 _Warm_ , Anya wants to say. _Like coming home_.

Instead her throat closes over, tears filling her eyes as she presses her thumb into Dmitry’s - her _husband_ \- dimple.

Dmitry brushes her cheek, frowning. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Anya clears her throat and kisses his palm, thumbing over his pulsepoint. “Yes. I’m just - I love you.” Her voice doesn’t waver. “I love you, and I’m so happy.”

Dmitry bites her lip when he kisses her again, locking their hands together. “I love you,” he breathes, resting their foreheads together. “God, I love you so much.”

He’s in the hasty process of unbuttoning her stupid jeans when she suddenly remembers something. “Wait, wait, wait,” she reels back. “Marmie.”

Dmitry blinks at her, dazed. “You - want to talk about Marmie? Now?”

Anya laughs, unwinding her legs from around him. “We’ve been gone all day, so unless you want her scratching at the bedroom door all night, you need to feed her _now_.”

Dmitry tips his head back, huffing. “I’m being cockblocked by my own wife.”

 _Wife_. Anya knows she’s grinning like an idiot, but she doesn’t care. She’s his wife.

“Your wife isn’t going anywhere, Dima,” she promises.

“Considering how long she spent on the phone with City Hall to even get married today, I’d hope not.” Dmitry cups her cheeks, peppers kisses over her face until she feels like she might melt on the spot. He brushes their noses together. “Thank you.”

Anya tilts her head. “For what?”

“Marrying me again,” he says softly.

She grins, squeezing her arms around him. “Thank you for asking.” Tickling his sides to make him squirm, Anya shoves him down further down the hall. “Go feed your damn cat so I can thank you properly.”

Eyes darkened, Dmitry mock-salutes her. “Yes, ma’am.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Lena, play _nice_.”

Dunya looks up at Polly’s stern voice ringing across the garden, smiles watching her daughter sheepishly set down the giggling toddler. “Sorry, Mama.”

Folded into the deckchair beside her, Anya laughs. “She’s fine, Pol, the boys swing her around enough.” She plants a kiss on Cassie’s forehead when the little girl slingshots back to her. “Go find Daddy and Andy, sweetie, go on.”

Dunya watches Cassie run into the house, nodding at Lena to follow. “How do they get so big?”

Anya shakes her head. “All I did was blink, I swear.”

“Mitya’s not trying to start a Little League team yet?” Polly asks, appearing with a tray of fruit to set down. Goosebumps trail over Dunya’s shoulders where her wife rubs over them.

“Not for lack of trying.” Anya rolls her eyes fondly. “Give it another year,” she says softly. “We said we’d wait a while after Cassie to adopt again.”

Polly just nods, sitting up straight. Her posture is so like their daughter’s and at this point, Dunya can’t remember who picked it up from whom.

“Lena wants to go to cheer camp next summer,” she says. “Found my old uniform in the attic and won’t let it go.”

Polly taps her wrist, smiling. “Like that wasn’t us when we were eight.”

Dunya remembers, long afternoons stretching and learning to be held up by sure hands, grass stained knees and victory bruises.

Anya’s giggling into her glass. “Looks like it runs in the family.”

There’s a commotion behind them, and they turn to see Dmitry tossing a soccer ball to Andy, Lena following behind with Cassie clinging to her back. Dunya feels a thrill of pride watching their daughter play the big sister.

“Ah, not so fast.” Polly stands up to stop Dmitry going after Andy. “You’re helping me with burgers.”

“Still don’t understand what you’ve got against salmon,” Dmitry sighs dramatically, stepping around her to drop a kiss on Anya’s face.

“Because it’s salmon,” Dunya emphasises just to irritate him, letting herself be tugged up by Cassie.

“Please don’t get him started,” Anya groans when Dmitry pouts, opting to watch Andy and Lena chase each other instead.

Dunya spins Cassie around once before letting her toddle into the fray as well.

“She’s so much like you,” she observes to Anya, watching Cassie follow her brother with determination. “Brave, unstoppable.”

Polly snorts. “Nah, she’s like Dmitry.”

“Watch it,” Dmitry warns jokingly.

“I was gonna say because she has so much energy.” Polly swats him, rolling her eyes.

“That’s true,” Anya confirms, patting her husband's arm. “For the two of them.”

Dunya hums, moves to wrap her arms around Polly’s waist and linking their hands together, chin hooked over her shoulder. “Well, I don’t know what _we’re_ going to do with two of them.”

For a moment, there is no sound but the shouts of three kids. Then, Anya’s delighted gasp and Dmitry’s shout of joy.

Dunya smiles into Polly’s neck. She’s never been happier.


	10. pre-verse

The sudden shift in their relationship isn’t obvious so much as it is subtle. They’ve always been affectionate; arms happy to hold, warm hands casually running over any skin they could reach and tipsy kisses dropped onto cheeks.

Dmitry thinks he’s more comfortable with Anya curled around him in the beds they’ve shared since he was ten years old than he is in his own skin.

It’s more like a gear has changed; everything moves faster, but not necessarily smooth.

Everything’s the same when Anya’s lying beside him complaining about her tutors while he’s studying, when she nudges her legs into his lap and throws microwave popcorn at this face while they’re watching some crappy Netflix originals. It’s the same when he tickles her until she shrieks and swears at him, pouting when he pins her wrists above her head and smirks down at her, a game they’ve played for years.

It’s the same until Dmitry’s mouthing down her navel and tugging at her shorts, Anya panting with her hands clenched in his hair and moaning _Dima_ when she comes against his tongue.

He sighs into her stomach, shutting his eyes while she sleepily pets his head. Let’s them have this moment before asking how blurred the line between _friends_ and _something more_ has become in the fortnight they’ve been exchanging orgasms.

“You’re good at that,” Anya murmurs, tapping the side of his face until he lifts his head to look at her. Sated and sleepy, she looks considerably more at ease then he feels.

“Thanks,” Dmitry says because he doesn’t know what else to, kissing her hip.

She sighs, knocking her ankle against his arm. “Okay, out with it.”

“With what?”

“You’ve got that look on your face.”

Dmitry frowns at her. “I don’t have a _look_.”

“Right.” Anya tugs at his shirt until he’s suspended over her, face braced between his elbows. “Like you didn’t after breaking my father's oldest bottle of wine last summer?”

They’d been hiding from Olga, and he’d tripped over Anya’s feet straight into Nicholas Romanov’s prize shelf of wine. The stain has never come out the rug. “That was an accident.”

“Uh huh.” Anya grins, hands stroking his cheeks. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or not?”

Instead, Dmitry dips down to kiss her. Anya groans, and he knows she can taste herself on his lip. Pulling back, he nudges their noses together and exhales. “Am I - are we -“ he stumbles. “After Marfa’s party, we didn’t - talk.”

Anya’s expression softens, running her thumb over his bottom lip. “About the kiss?”

Dmitry swallows. “And everything after.” His hands move under her shirt. “Us. This.”

He doesn’t expect Anya to roll her eyes back and laugh. “Are you asking if I’m your girlfriend?” She cackles, fingers tugging at his collar. “What is this, middle school?”

“You never went to middle school,” he points out, mildly offended. “And fine, if you don’t want to talk about it -“ he makes to push off of her and the sofa, but she winds her arms around his neck and hauls him close.

“No no no, come back, I’m sorry, we can.” Anya traps him against her, and Dmitry is suddenly very aware of how half-naked she is and how hard he still is, pressed into her thigh. He kisses her neck while she gathers her thoughts.

“You’re my best friend,” she says eventually, softer than he’s heard her in a long time.

Dmitry shifts in her arms, nosing at her cheek. “You’re mine, too.”

Before anything else, anything more. And that’s what they’re risking, by wanting something more.

She’s chewing her lip, blue eyes anxious. Dmitry runs a hand over her ribs, soothing.

“But,” he says carefully. “if we wanted it to be more -”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Dmitry.”

The force of her words makes him jump. Anya wriggles out from under him and flips them over, hands planted on his chest.

“You’re not _proposing_ , calm down,” she continues, exasperated. Leaning forward, she kisses him hard. “I’m your girlfriend. Stop being dramatic.”

Her face lights up even as she says it. Dmitry feels giddy, wrapping his arms around her middle and gathering her close. “I’m trying to be _sincere_ ,” he argues, grinning.

“You’re always sincere,” Anya breathes into his mouth. “It’s annoying.” She ducks to kiss him again, but he grabs her wrist to kiss her pulse point.

“I’m gonna be so annoying,” he promises. “The most annoying boyfriend ever. Romantic dinners and matching coffee cups.”

“A real fairytale.” Anya rolls her eyes, but her tongue is eager in his mouth when he kisses her and she impatiently moves to unbutton his jeans. "I do. Want more. With you."

Dmitry has to bite her shoulder when her hips start moving and she’s panting in his ear, hopes it’s enough to stop himself saying something stupid like _I love you_.


	11. pre-verse

“What year was the Wall Street Crash?”

“October 1929,” Dmitry yawns, not looking up from doing his shoelaces.

“When was the Second New Deal?” Anya drills on, blanket covered feet pressed into his hip.

“Okay, please stop.” He plucks his own notes from Anya’s hands.

Anya pouts. “I’m trying to _help_ ,” she insists, sitting up, her hair sleep mussed.

“You’ve _been_ helping.” Dmitry kisses her nose. “I can hack a history exam, Anyok, stop worrying.”

“I’m worrying because _you_ worried,” she counters, but doesn’t take the notes back. She watches him flick through them, biting her lip. “And I know you’ll be fine, you’re the smartest person I know.”

Dmitry grins. “Even Olga?”

“ _Especially_ Olga.” Anya kisses his cheek. “Want me to help with Math when you get back?”

“Shouldn’t you be going home?” She’s been here since his SATs started, which must have been over a week ago if his caffeine-induced memories hold up.

“They know where I am,” she shrugs. “And I prefer Vlad’s cooking, anyway.”

As if on cue, a shout comes from downstairs. “Mitya!”

Grabbing his bag, Dmitry kisses Anya and stands quickly. “Gotta go.”

“Good luck,” she offers after him.

Halfway out the attic door, he waves. “See you later, love you,” he calls.

It takes approximately four steps down the stairs before Dmitry stops dead.

_Love you._

Oh, fuck.

* * *

“Oh, _Dima_ ,” Dunya practically squeals.

Dmitry winces, giving up on his half eaten sandwich. “Please don’t.”

“Eight months and you’ve already dropped the L bomb,” Marfa observes. “Impressive.”

“I didn’t -“ he starts, faltering when Polly squints at him. “Maybe she didn’t hear.”

“Have you spoken to her?” Polly asks, offering half a tangerine to Dunya.

“No.” He glances up to see all three of them glaring at him. “What?”

Marfa throws her hands up. “ _Men,_ ” she despairs. “Go home and talk to her, idiot.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be studying?” He reminds them.

Dunya rolls her eyes, patting his arm. “I think that can wait, honey.”

* * *

Anya doesn’t even look like she’s moved, still on the attic bed with multiple of his textbooks spread around her.

Something swells in his chest, seeing her trying to help him.

“Oh, hey,” she smiles up at him. “Thought you studying with the girls?”

“Yeah.” He sinks beside her, not knowing how to broach the subject. “Figured I can do it here.” He swallows. “We need to talk.”

Anya’s face falls for a second, schooling back just as fast. “What about?” Her tone is cool, but Dmitry hears the waver.

 _This is going well_. “Nothing bad,” he says quickly, reaching up to tug a lock of her hair. “Just, this morning, when I was leaving -“

Anya loops her fingers around his wrist, stopping him. “You said ‘see you later, love you’,” she says softly, repeating the words that have been whirling around his mind all day.

Dmitry’s mouth is dry. “You heard.”

“Dima.” She kisses his palm. “You’ve said that before, you know.”

He has. They both have. But not in the context of what they are now. “I know,” he says lamely, brushing her cheek. “But not - like that.”

Anya leans forward, nudging their noses together, so close he can see the ring of green around her irises. “Well - I love you,” she murmurs, “like that. Plus the rest.”

Relief loosens in his chest. “Okay. I mean -“ he stumbles, lightheaded, Anya giggling against his mouth. “I love you, too.”

Anya kisses him, pinching his chin. “Glad we cleared that up.” Pulling back, she holds up two sets of notes. “Calc or algebra?”

Dmitry laughs, lying on his back with a hand on her thigh. He loves her. “Is neither an option?”

“Afraid not, genius.”


	12. pre-verse

Olga rolls her eyes the moment she sees him. “Don’t know who else I was expecting,” she sighs, widening the door to let him in. “Take your shoes off, everyone’s asleep.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Dmitry toes off his sneakers while she bolts the door again. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” The eldest Romanov is wearing pyjamas but doesn’t look like she’s slept despite the obvious jet lag.

Olga leads him in, sitting back behind the kitchen counter where her laptop is set up. “Vacation’s over, too much work to do.”

Dmitry tries not to laugh too loudly. “And how was London?”

“Cold and miserable,” she says cooly, offering up the coffee pot; he shakes his head. “Not much different from here.”

Dmitry chooses to bite his tongue at that. It’s no secret all of Anya’s sisters have no desire to stay in Fox River after their schooling, Olga and Tatiana especially. “Right,” he says awkwardly.

Olga gives him a look, mouth quirking. “You can go on up, if you like. The pair of you apart for three weeks probably amounts to torture.”

He tries not to seem too eager heading over to the stairs, rounding the counter to hug her around the shoulders. “Missed you too, Olya.”

She laughs, shoving him off. “I’m sure. Go to your girl, Mitya.”

Dmitry takes the stairs two at a time, careful not to step on the weaker spots of the landing and wake the entire household up. Anya’s bedroom is between Maria’s and Alexei’s, the dinosaur stickers they’d stuck on the doorknob when they were nine and eleven almost completely faded white.

Anya’s hair is the only part of her visible under the covers; Dmitry barely stops himself from throwing himself on top and squeezing her until she shrieks, he’s missed her that much.

Instead, he tosses his jacket over the unopened suitcases and tugs on the comforter until she groans softly and rolls over to let him slide in beside her. She’s wearing the Green Day shirt he’s been trying to find for months, he bemusedly notes.

Still half asleep, she nuzzles close, and something in his chest tugs at how easily she reaches for him even unconsciously. Breathing in the familiar strawberry scent of her hair, Dmitry already feels more settled than he has in three weeks.

“You’re early,” Anya murmurs, fitting their legs together. Dmitry’s very glad he chose to wear sweats.

“You’re home,” he says quietly, tightening his arms around her. “Couldn’t wait.”

Anya hums. “Got you a present.”

“Yeah?”

“S’in my bag. Notebook. Starry one.” She’s halfway asleep again, but her face tilts to clumsily kiss his cheek. “Made me think of you.”

“Thanks.” Dmitry brushes her cheek. “Give it to me later?”

“‘Kay.” She tucks her face into his neck, breathing evening out. “Missed you.”

Dmitry presses a smile into her hair. “Missed you, too.”


	13. Chapter 13

Anya spends the first three hours of the flight trying to calm Cassie down.

“Kinda ironic,” Andy says, face poked between the seats. “You love space so much but it makes you sick.”

Cassie groans. “We’re not even _in_ space, idiot,” she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’s lying across the thankfully vacant row, head on a pillow in Anya’s lap, who she squints up at now. “Mom -“

“Not giving you a sleeping pill,” Anya tells her again, not looking up from the trashy romance novel she’d picked up at the airport. She pats Cassie’s forehead, glancing at Andy over her shoulder. “How’s your father?”

“Not much better.”

“‘M _awake_ ,” Dmitry calls weakly from the seat behind her. Anya grins, having taken enough flights with him to know exactly how terrible he’s feeling; and Cassie seems to have inherited his flight vertigo.

Cassie waves a hand in front of her brother’s face. “Say something in Russian.”

Andy rolls his eyes, already reaching back for the phrase book Lena had given him when she found out he was spending most of spring break in Saint Petersburg. “You could learn it yourself, you know.”

“You’re better at it.” Cassie shuts her eyes.

Andy clears his throats. “ _My uzhe na meste?”_ He asks in an exaggerated accent.

To his credit, he’s pronunciation is impeccable, but Anya still rolls her eyes. “Five hours. Anything else?”

“When are we seeing the palaces?” Cassie asks instead.

“Tickets are for Friday.”

“Space museum’s on Monday, Cass,” Dmitry pipes up.

“Which is when we’re seeing those egg things, right?” Anya directs at Andy.

He rolls his eyes. “Fabergé eggs, Mom.”

“You only wanna see them to show Lena,” Cassie says slyly.

Flushing, Andy reaches through and pinches her side. “Shut _up.”_

Cassie squeaks.

“How’s about we all do that?” Dmitry groans.

Anya swats Andy’s wrist. “Both of you, try to sleep,” she fondly instructs. “You can bicker all you like in Petersburg.”


	14. pre-verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (i wrote this a million years ago and it’s been sitting my docs forever bc i didn’t expand on it don’t judge me)

He knew when he saw what she was wearing that she was up to something.

Anya’s always up to something, if not to do with him then with her sisters, her parents, the other girls in town, twisting them around her little finger.

The sundress is yellow and white, soft fabric fluttering where it ends mid-thigh. Dmitry's throat goes dry when she climbs into the truck, red sunglasses resting on her head and grinning.

“You know it’s not that hot, right?” He tells her, eyes lingering on her legs, probably what she intended.

“I run hot anyway.” Anya leans over and kisses him, slipping her tongue into his mouth teasingly. “Let’s go.”

Alone on the riverbank, it takes all of twenty minutes for her to sweetly convince him to pin her wrists above her head and fuck her.

“Someone’s gonna hear us,” he pants, hips snapping against hers.

Anya just moans again, one ankle pressed hard into the small of his back. She’s so loud he has to kiss her quiet.

“No, they won’t,” she sighs, tilting her hips up to slide him in further. Dmitry almost comes right then. “No one ever comes this way.” There’s a glint in her eye telling him this is exactly what she planned.

Dmitry snorts, glancing down at where one of his hands is bunched up in the sundress, yellow fabric stained by grass. “You’re a twisted little minx, Anyok,” he murmurs, fingers tightening on her wrists when she starts to tremble beneath him.

Breathless, she giggles. “You love it.”

Dmitry just kisses her.


	15. Chapter 15

The tests are laughing at her.

She’d grabbed a handful of them at Meyers the other night, buried beneath the shiny new felt-tip pens for Andy, Lily’s berries and the halibut Dmitry’s planning to deep-fry. The cashier had given her a sympathetic look that made Anya’s stomach roll, adding to the nausea she’s been feeling for days.

Doesn’t look like she’ll be eating fish for a while, Anya thinks hysterically.

She's sitting on the bathroom floor, cold tile biting into her back, half hoping that the little pluses are a trick of the light. That she had upheld the promise she made to herself at sixteen after another test had revealed the red flag in her genetics, the constant cautionary reminder to not get pregnant.

Almost thirty years old, and she’s gone and done it anyway.

A sob wracks through her, tears spilling over before she can even think to collect herself. Anya bites the sleeve of her jumper before anyone in the house can hear her, forcing herself to remember the breathing techniques her therapist taught her.

“Anya?”

She startles at the knock on the door, hastily wiping her face and shoving the three white sticks into the trash can. “Yeah,” she confirms, hoping her voice isn’t as panicked as she feels.

“You okay?” Dmitry’s concern makes her feel worse. “You’ve been in there a while, Andy’s asking for you.”

“I’m fine,” she lies reflexively, jumping up to wash her shaking hands. “Be out in a sec.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, Anya bracing herself on the sink against everything she knows he’s feeling behind the door.

“Anyok, open the door,” he says quietly, the same gentle tone he uses when he’s calming their son down from tantrums.

Dmitry takes one look at her red eyes and opens his arms, thumb stroking the curve of her neck. “Are you sick?”

Anya laughs wetly into his shoulder, tightening her fingers in the back of his shirt. “Probably shouldn’t be hugging me if I was.”

“Never stopped me before,” he reminds her, the truth as to why they’d always end up with cold and flus at the same time when they were younger.

Anya sighs. “Not sick,” she mutters into his shirt, eyes filling up again. Pulling back, she leans against the doorframe and takes a deep breath. There’s really no way to prepare him for this. “I’m pregnant.”

Dmitry’s frown drops into shock, wide eyes automatically zoning to her stomach. “You - what -“ he chokes, hands coming to grasp her waist. “You’re sure? Are you - are you alright?”

Of course her well being is his first priority.

“Took three tests,” she whispers, the reality of it hitting all at once. “And - no, I’m really not.” Her voice breaks, and Dmitry’s arms are back around her in a second.

“I got you,” he’s saying over her sobbing, the mantra he’s been repeating since she was seventeen. “I got you, I’m right here.”

Anya won’t pretend she hasn’t imagined the sort of child she and Dmitry could make, even after the gene test said she shouldn’t. One with his eyes and her chin and their joint stubbornness, an image she stopped trying to hope for years ago.

An image she didn’t need after Andy, after he burrowed his way into her heart with every milestone he’s reached with them and each time he eagerly stretches his arms out to be held by her.

“Where’s Andy?” She asks a while later, still in the doorway of the bathroom.

Dmitry lets her pull away again. “Living room with Lily, watching that Avatar show.”

Anya nods, swallowing. “I wanna see him.”

Dmitry’s eyebrows shoot up. “To - tell him?”

“No, no, I -“ she loops her fingers in between his shirt buttons, lump painful in her throat. “Just - need to hold him.”

Dmitry kisses her forehead, before resting his own against hers. “Should probably talk about this,” he says softly, holding her hand against her stomach.

“Yeah.” Anya squeezes her eyes shut. She knows how that conversation will go, knows all the statistics and chances and possible complications as well as she knows her own name. “But not now,” she pleads.

“Anya -“ Dmitry sighs.

“Not never,” she says hurriedly. “I - we have to, I know, but please not tonight.”

Tonight she just wants to hold her son in her arms, watch Avatar: The Last Airbender and pretend her world doesn’t feel like it’s imploding.

Relenting, Dmitry kisses her and tugs her back onto the landing, hands soothing along her arms. “Okay,” he murmurs against her mouth. “We’re okay, Anyok.”

Despite the fear tightening underneath her ribs, Anya finds she believes him.


	16. Chapter 16

Afterwards, Anya stares up at the ceiling, trying to catch her breath while Dmitry’s fingers trail along her inner thigh. An up and down motion that she guesses is meant to soothe her.

It’s doing the opposite.

“Ever feel like we’re going in circles?” She finally asks, just to break the silence.

Dmitry snorts and rolls on his side, heat radiating off him under the sheets. “The same circle, I think.”

There was a blueprint, when they were teenagers. A cycle they had fallen into before their first kiss that’s been repeating itself for the last three months. Something was always going to happen, Anya knew that the second he picked her up from the airport - it became less a question of _how_ and more of _when_.

Admittedly, three months is pretty impressive for them. Given how many times they’ve skirted on the edges of breaking the unspoken boundaries that had been drawn up, how they’d all started to blur every time they slipped up and forget there isn’t supposed to be a _them_ like that anymore.

Like when Dmitry almost kissed her outside her apartment two months ago, both of them tipsy and swaying. Or when Anya accidentally said _Love you, bye_ on the phone one afternoon when he’d called her with his Starbucks request after work.

Or the morning after he’d crashed on Anya’s sofa again, stumbled sleepily into the bathroom and found her brushing her teeth at the sink. He’d slipped his arms around her waist and kissed the curve of her neck in greeting, opened his mouth as if to nip the skin before he seemed to remember.

For a moment they were frozen, staring at one another in the mirror, Dmitry holding Anya, mouth hovering over her skin. He’d jumped away, rubbing his face with his hands. “Sorry, sorry!”

Anya’s whole body was humming, but she’d just averted her eyes. “It’s fine,” she said instead, clearing her throat. She’d fled back to her bedroom, toothbrush still in hand. It was a full half an hour before she could look at him again.

The seconds between those moments, between forgetting and remembering, reminds her of their first kiss. A deliberate choice being made to pretend it didn’t happen or dive headfirst into it.

Maybe it’d be different if she didn’t know what kissing Dmitry’s felt like - didn’t know what being loved by him felt like. If the choice they’d made that night hadn’t sealed their fate for a doomed marriage. If she hadn’t as good as ruined his life in doing so.

No part of Anya will ever feel like she deserves Dmitry.

He must feel the shift in her mood, because his hand suddenly tightens on her thigh. “Stop it.”

“What?”

“Can hear you overthinking from here.”

Anya swallows. “I should -“ she goes to move away, but his arm snakes around her and pins her next to him. “ _Dmitry._ ”

“Don’t run away,” he pleads, the _again_ hanging silent. “Please. Talk to me.”

“This is my apartment,” she shoots back. “Where would I go?”

“Anyok.” Dmitry squeezes her hip gently.

Anya presses her fingers over his, biting her lip. “What do you want me to say?” She asks him instead, finally turning her face to look at him. “That this was a mistake? That we’re a bad idea in any form, and we should forget about it?”

“No.” Dmitry sits up, hovering over her. “Tell me the truth.”

Something dislodges in her at that, hot tears pricking her eyes. He sees right through her, always will. “You shouldn’t want me,” she whispers. “Not like this. Not anymore.”

Dmitry’s face softens. “Don’t think you get to decide that.”

“Dima -“

“I love you,” he says simply, and Anya inhales sharply. “I forgive you and I love you. That was never in question for me.”

When they were young, she poked fun at his sincerity to mask how inadequate it made her feel about her inability to express her own feelings; when they were married she had resented it for the same reasons in worse circumstances.

Anya doesn’t know how she lived without it for five years, now.

She wants to cry, wants to kiss him again to make up for all the lost time and chances, but guilt sits heavy under her ribs. “You shouldn’t,” she repeats hoarsely, leaning into his hand when he reaches to wipe her eyes. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You know, deserving feels irrelevant,” he tells her, then carries on before she can protest. “Because I’m not going anywhere, Anyok. I don’t want anyone else.”

Anya clenches her fists so hard she’s sure her nails will leave indents on her palms.

Make the choice, cross the line.

“Me neither.”

He tells her he loves her again when she kisses him, but guilt keeps the words stuck in her own throat.

It takes a while for her to say them without feeling like the worst person in the world, but it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. She has the rest of their lives to tell him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been Eighty Four Years.

It’s not unusual for their phones to ring in the middle of the night these days, beit Anya’s family in Europe or Lily forgetting the time difference between Alaska and New York.

Lately, it’s been for another reason.

Dmitry rolls over with her as Anya fumbles for her cellphone. “Who?” He yawns into her hair.

The name she sees makes her hastily pat his shoulder. “Social worker,” she tells him, hitting Answer. “Hey, Lisa.”

“Mrs Sudayev, I’m so sorry,” Lisa is rushing out. “I know it’s late, but I couldn’t find anyone -“

Dmitry’s already out of bed and pulling on a shirt, gesturing for Anya to turn on speaker.

“It’s alright, we’re getting used to it,” Anya stops her. “Who you got for us?”

Lisa sighs. “Kid was in Queens, foster parents took off and left for days and we’ve _just_ picked him up again, but he’s gonna need a place to stay for a while till we find something permanent.”

“What’s his name?” Dmitry asks, handing Anya her dressing gown.

“Andrew Williams - well, Andy. Not long turnerd four. Poor things burned out.”

Anya glances up at Dmitry - they’ve never taken one in so young before. She tilts her head, and he nods.

“We can take him,” Anya reassures. “How far out are you?”

“Ten minutes?”

“I’ll get the room set up,” Dmitry says.

Lisa thanks them again and rings off.

Anya swings her legs off the bed, bumping Dmitry’s shoulder. “Four years old,” she says softly. They youngest they’ve had ten, though they’ve been fully vetted and trained to deal with younger children.

Dmitry shakes his head, sighing. “It’s not fair, I know.”

“It’s never fair,” she agrees, tugging on his hand. “Come on, I’ll help with the room.”

* * *

Lisa knocks on the door at the promised time, looking more frazzled than any other time she’s dropped off temporary stays.

“You’re lifesavers, honestly,” she says.

“It’s _fine_ ,” Anya insists, letting them in as Dmitry comes to stand beside her. “Happy to do it.”

Her eyes are fixed on the small blond boy standing at Lisa’s feet. He’s dressed in faded patterned pyjamas and a duffle coat that’s far too big for him, his head bent to the floor and small hands clutching a battered Toy Story backpack.

“You must be Andy,” Dmitry is saying gently, kneeling down. “My name's Dmitry, and this is Anya.” He gestures to her. “You’re gonna be staying with us for a little while, okay?”

Andy’s head lifts, mournful blue eyes taking them both in. Anya’s heart tugs at how utterly exhausted he looks.

Then Andy surprises them all, stepping forward and wrapping his little arms around Dmitry’s neck. To his credit, Dmitry only wobbles for a second before securing Andy in his arms and carefully standing up.

“Oh, honey,” Anya whispers, reaching to run her fingers through Andy’s hair. He curls into Dmitry, face pressed into his neck. “You’re okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“I got him,” Dmitry murmurs, cupping the back of Andy’s head.

Lisa watches them, frowning. “He’s never done that before,” she comments.

Dmitry half turns away. “Want me to…”

“Sit with him.” Anya touches his shoulder, gently prying Andy’s backpack from his little hand. “I got this.” She watches Dmitry head to the couch, Andy fast asleep in his arms already.

“The last foster parents just ditched him?” She asks in disbelief.

Lisa grimaces. “If you can even call them that.” She accepts an offered cup of coffee, sitting at the table. “You wouldn’t believe how much he’s been bounced around.”

“He’s _four_.”

“And people are terrible.”

Anya shakes her head. “Can I ask - what happened to his biological parents?”

“Mom was a teenage runaway in Alaska, never anything on the father,” Lisa explains sadly. “He’s been through too much.”

Anya blinks, sitting back in her chair. Alaska. Of course Andy’s from Alaska. “Anything else we should know?”

Lisa clears her throat, shifting back into professional mode. “He doesn’t have any allergies, no bed wetting, there might be some issues with sleeping but - he’s wiped out tonight, you should be good.”

Anya pulls a face. “Trust me, we’re experts dealing with nightmares.”

Lisa leaves with everything relevant signed and a promise from Anya and Dmitry to call in the morning before an afternoon visit. Andy doesn’t wake up once.

“How much did you hear?” Anya whispers, sitting beside Dmitry the couch, arm stretched over to play with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Most of it,” Dmitry sighs, then chuckles. “Figures we’d get a kid from Alaska, right?”

Anya smiles. “Starting to think the universe has a plan about that.” She trails her hand over Andy’s back, making him tense and murmur in his sleep. “He’s taken to you.”

“He’s just tired.” Still, Dmitry tightens his hold around Andy. “Don’t wanna move him.”

“Wanna camp out here tonight?” Anya suggests. “Like when we were kids?”

Dmitry grins. “Might have to veto the pillow forts, though.”

Anya stands reluctantly, not wanting to pull away from Dmitry’s warmth and the view of him holding Andy. “I’ll get a blanket.” She kisses him. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Dmitry yawns, eyes fluttering shut.

At some point during the night, Andy moves from Dmitry’s chest to Anya’s shoulder. She wakes up with the sun on over her face, Andy’s hand tangled in her hair, Dmitry’s arm across her shoulder and their legs pressed together under the throw blanket.

Combing through Andy’s hair, Anya sleepily thinks she could get used to this.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> v much inspired by [this tweet and video](https://twitter.com/fschiko_/status/1294497734355857408?s=21). marmalade is a menace.

It’s instinct that has Dmitry reaching for the baby monitor as soon as it’s motion sensor goes off, ready to swing out of bed to soothe Cassie. Except his brain catches up with his arm a second later - because Cassie is already in bed with them.

Dmitry blinks, raising his head to double check. Yes, there she is; splayed on Anya’s chest, eyelids fluttering as she sucks on her pacifier. Andy’s between him and Anya, half sharing Dmitry’s pillow and clutching his whale plushie.

(He’s seven now, and they should be encouraging him to stay in his own bed. But after the long stretch in Fox River and the sudden house move when they were back in New York, they’re not going to deprive him of anxious comforts.)

All three are fast asleep. Dmitry tries to keep his breathing even, although his heart feels as if it’s about to beat out of his chest.

Something’s in Cassie’s room.

Anya’s always been terrified of break-ins, since what happened to her family. She has a ritual of setting the alarms every night, triple checking all the doors and windows are locked before she can sleep. It was a while after they’d moved into this new house before she was able to feel completely safe.

“I know it’s silly,” she sometimes mutters, sliding under the covers beside him.

“No, it’s not.” Dmitry strokes her hair. “Not if it makes you feel better.”

Slowly reaching for the monitor again, he wonders how quickly and quietly he can somehow barricade their bedroom door in time to get everyone to safety and call the police. His heart is pounding painfully, wondering if the men who went after the Romanovs have somehow come back to finish the job.

What he sees on the little night-vision screen almost makes him go slack in relief.

Marmie has somehow managed to jump into Cassie’s crib, and from what he can see is currently having the time of her life batting at the mobile hanging above. Jupiter gets caught on her claw, and she shakes it violently until it unhooks.

Still a little lightheaded with the rush of fear and ease he’s just gone through, Dmitry gets out of bed anyway, careful not to wake Andy. None of them stir as he pads down the hall to Cassie’s room.

Marmie doesn’t look the slightest bit bothered at seeing him, her tail curling in greeting.

“You,” Dmitry whispers, lifting her out, “are the worst, you know that, right?”

Marmie meows loudly at him, pawing at his arm. Looks like he’ll have to wipe down Cassie’s crib later.

Anya’s rubbing her eyes when he gets back; she never sleeps long once he’s gone. “What’s wrong?” She asks quietly, protective hand on Cassie’s back.

Dmitry shakes his head. “Marmie,” he says as explanation, setting the cat down on the bed. She immediately darts to Andy, nosing at his blond hair before stretching out against the headboard.

Andy sighs, clumsily patting her fur. “Night-night, Marms,” he mumbles, going straight back to sleep.

“It’s like having three kids, I swear,” Dmitry yawns, collapsing back onto his side and throwing an arm over his eyes.

Anya chuckles through her nose, and he feels her lightly squeeze his elbow. “Night-night, Dima,” she echoes softly.

Dmitry grasps her hand, threading their fingers together. “Night-night, Anyok.”


	19. Chapter 19

She doesn’t hear the shout up the stairs, or footsteps on carpet. Doesn’t even realise her brother is in the room until a wire has been tugged out of her ear.

“Earth to Cassiopeia.” Andy grins, kneeling down beside her. “Thought you’d be done by now.”

Cassie pulls a face, pausing her music. “Only started yesterday,” she admits. “Keep getting distracted.”

“Making Marmie chase a piece of string isn’t being _distracted,_ Cass.” Andy looks around the seemingly endless amount of books and clothes and whatever else their parents have been buying. “I definitely didn’t have this much stuff.”

Cassie rolls her eyes but says nothing. Andy had lived at home his first year at NYU, then moved into an apartment barely big enough to fit him and Lena. It had taken three trips in his car to move his things.

“Where’s Lena?” She asks instead.

Andy always has the small smile on his face whenever Lena’s is mentioned. He used to go red to the roots of his blond hair as well, but that habit has been exchanged to twirling around his wedding ring.

“Work. She ran her first training session today,” he says proudly.

“Congratulations,” Cassie offers, making a mental note to text Lena later. “You wanna help me or not?”

“Mom and dad are literally downstairs.”

“Dad still doesn’t like me going to Boston alone and Mom gets weepy every time she’s in here now,” she complains.

“Dad doesn’t like that you keep trying to convince them to let you move all your stuff over on your bike,” Andy corrects. Cassie pouts; she’s been helping repair a Yamaha V Star 250 at the garage ever since she got her motorcycle license, but it’s not looking likely to be her mode of transport to Boston.

“Wonder what they’ll say when they find out about San Diego,” Cassie says pointedly, grinning when Andy narrows his eyes.

“What you got left?” He sighs.

She elbows the box she’d been rummaging through before Andy interrupted. “Dunno, Dad keeps bringing boxes down from the attic that he _thinks_ are mine, though really he should be doing the opposite.”

Andy chuckles, blindly reaching behind and tugging something out the box. “What are these, photo albums?”

Cassie shrugs, face scrunching at the cloud of dust that billows up from the leather binding opening. She peers at the sun bleached cluster of photos. “Never seen these ones.” There’s an odd silence from her brother. “Andy?”

He clears his throat. “You have,” he says softly. “I mean, we have. You were about five and kept trying to pull them off the paper. Mom must have packed them away.”

Cassie blinks, not remembering that at all. She squints at the yellowed page. “Is that mom?”

Andy hums. “Mom’s family.”

Discomfort squirms in her stomach. They know about what happened to their aunts and uncle and grandparents - Cassie found out when she was twelve and made the mistake of googling her mother's name. School had to call her father from work because Cassie had locked herself in the toilets, sobbing.

Their mother has never really talked about it, and they can’t really blame her. Cassie doesn’t think she’d want to talk about her whole family being murdered, either.

So she rests her cheek against Andy’s shoulder, watching her mother's life go page by page, dust making their eyes water.

It’s when they reach near the end that she bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god, is that _Dad_?!” Cassie exclaims, pointing. “He looks like _you._ ”

The fair-haired boy with his toothy grin bared at the camera looks nothing like the dark haired man who raised them, but she’d recognised the dark eyes staring back at hers immediately.

Andy laughs, clearly pleased. “Hard to believe he was that blond.” His thumb brushes over a photo of their parents as teenagers, sitting side by side in a truck. Their father is smiling awkwardly like he wasn’t expecting it to be taken, his hands on the steering wheel, but their mother is peering around him and grinning.

“Or that young,” Cassie says quietly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be packing?”

They both startle, photo album snapping shut at their mother's voice in the doorway.

“We’re being sentimental,” Andy explains while Cassie is still searching for an excuse.

“Oh, well in that case.” Mom rolls her eyes fondly, then addresses Andy. “You staying for dinner? Dad’s making salmon.”

Andy nods. “Save a plate for Lena, too.”

She smiles. “Big family meal, then.” Her eyes pin on Cassie. “You, finish this tomorrow. And, don’t worry, you’re having steak.”

“ _Spasiba_ , Mom,” Cassie chirps. Andy has a better grasp of Russian - numbers and equations always come easier to her than languages - but she likes the way her parents' faces brighten when she speaks it.

Andy goes to sling the photo album back in its dusty box, but Cassie grabs it. “Nope,” she decides. “This is coming with me.”


End file.
